


but we were happy

by kaneklutz



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, But it's fun to think about, Hurt No Comfort, No beta we kayak like Tim, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Other, Post-Finale, S5 predictions, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, Unhappy Ending, i don't actually think it'll turn out like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29037687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaneklutz/pseuds/kaneklutz
Summary: Martin watches Jon slip out from beneath the covers each night, disappearing out the front door like a ghost. He does not ask, in the morning. No matter how much he wants to, he does not ask.And in the end, they never do speak of it.-In which the world is reborn, and not everything can be perfect.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	but we were happy

**Author's Note:**

> i've had too many conversations about How Jmart Is Bad Actually and while i don't really believe that, i /do/ like exploring endings that aren't so good and "they lived happily ever after"
> 
> come, sit down, play with me in this space! no hard feelings :]

_exhibit a:_

They win in the end, if anything can be considered a ‘win’ when the game has long been ended. In the broken ruins of the Panopticon, in a room with no roof that might have once been an office, they fall asleep. The world is finally free of fear.

Martin kisses Jon like they’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. Jon kisses back as if the world has been reborn.

They lie together, on the same pillow with a tattered blanket, pressed so close that Jon is swallowed in Martin’s arms.

All around, as they drift off to sleep, the world begins anew and life returns to a ruined universe. Stars shine once more in the night sky.

* * *

_exhibit b:_

Unanimously, they both decide that the only place they want to be is in the safehouse. The road is long, but they find a car, and there is no longer any twisting dream logic, no tricks of the Spiral, to say that a vehicle will not shorten their journey.

”We can’t _steal._ ”

”We saved the world, Jon, and frankly, I don’t think the owner of this car plans to come back.”

They take the car.

The drive back to Scotland is quiet, but comfortably so. The ceaseless drone of the apocalypse is gone at last, and there is peace.

When they arrive, the place is as they left it, save for the door that hangs on broken hinges, and a smashed window. The fears that had once made this house theirs are gone, so the window is boarded up, and the door is secured with rope until they have the chance to fix it properly. After all, they have all the time in the world.

Sleeping on the couch is an easy decision to make. The bedroom has too many ghosts and whispers of the fear that had cocooned them; the memories linger in their minds.

Jon hopes that those will fade too, in time. They close their eyes, and do not pray. As far as they know, there are no more gods.

They sleep on the couch that night, and the next night, until Jon can no longer sleep and spends the darkest hours outside on the porch, counting the stars. Hopefully, if they can keep watch, the lights won’t go out again.

(Martin watches them slip out from beneath the covers each night, disappearing out the front door like a ghost. He does not ask, in the morning. No matter how much he wants to, he does not ask.

And in the end, they never do speak of it.)

* * *

_exhibit c:_

Eventually, after some time has passed in their cottage away from the new-old world, they decide that they’ve been away from the city long enough. So together, they call the necessary people, learn what civilization is like now; reverted to the way it was, and yet trembling like the legs of a newborn fawn. And a plan to return is devised.

The flat that they buy is, in the end, nicer than they could have ever afforded before all of this. Even despite their sacrifices, those who had been taken by the End were not recovered, and their lives were lost along with the banished evil.

But this means comfort, and luxury, for all those still alive. So perhaps it isn’t the worst thing, if you close your eyes.

Jon’s responsible for the majority of the technical issues, and in the end they move in with little trouble, and even less furniture. The most expensive item is a large, comfortable bed, big enough for thrice the amount that would be sleeping in it each night.

Martin sits down, beckons Jon to his side. They acquiesce, earrings jingling as they duck their head at Martin’s question. The blue gems sparkle, catch the fading rays of sun.

”Jon, why do we need such a large bed?”

They shrug, falling back onto the soft mattress with a gentle _oof._ Reaching out, they tug at Martin’s sleeve, and he allows himself to be dragged onto his back as well. Side by side, they lie facing the ceiling, a bright stream of sunlight splashing across their faces.

”I don’t know,” Jon murmurs at last. “I just thought we deserved the comfort.”

And though comfort it may well be, Martin has a sinking suspicion that good lumbar support isn’t Jon’s primary concern, as the nights go by. Every one of them has Jon slipping out of bed, often returning just before dawn and sometimes not at all, citing an early rise when Martin enters the kitchen to see them making breakfast in the mornings.

He doesn’t question it, because he loves Jon. They love him too, he’s certain. Together they’re stronger, together they’ll keep going. There is no other choice.

(They fight, one night. It’s the first fight they’ve had in a long time, and Martin spits hurt words at Jon, who deflects and returns fire with snide comments of their own.

“Why do you sneak off every night, Jon? Please, just tell me. Are you not happy here?”

”How could I be, Martin? How could I be happy here? How am I supposed to _ever_ be happy?”

They press their hand to their lips when they say this, eyes widening as they meet Martin’s appalled gaze, unable to take back too-quick words. Words that ring of truth, but twist sourly in the air.

Jon apologizes later that night, and Martin accepts their apology; first by force of habit, then genuinely, out of love. Because he still loves Jon, he does, he loves them, he loves them so much it hurts (or perhaps he just hurts).

And still, Jon and Martin do not wake up in the same bed in the mornings.)

* * *

_exhibit d:_

In the evenings, Jon is found in their office, head bent over some puzzle or some article, always working on anything from aimless mind games to academic studies. Somewhere in the house, Martin is either tending to the plants, or writing poetry in the kitchen. He claims to find inspiration more easily in there, somehow.

Jon loves that about him. It’s so _Martin,_ so painfully appropriate to him, and it makes them smile to think about it, their partner sitting on the kitchen counter or the floor or table, scribbling away in a little notebook.

They don’t speak to each other much these days. It could be blamed on the house being so large that they could go weeks without seeing each other if they chose to, or just habits, that lead them off to separate rooms, winding around each other’s paths, never meeting. 

Neither of them are miserable. How could they be? By all accounts, they have everything they could want. This is the future they sacrificed for, this is the life they wanted.

This is the life that they wanted with each other.

But Martin’s loving smiles and cheeky remarks turn to cold words and blank, unseeing gazes, his face a marble mask. Jon’s soft words and their need to always be around someone fades to prickly barbs and an aversion to touch so strong that sometimes they suffocate under the pressure even alone.

They may only show a few visible scars, but both are covered in the marks left by all they survived. Every trauma, every mistake, every punishment. The consequences are seared into their minds.

And these days, they are nothing but scars.

* * *

_exhibit e:_

They float around each other as the days turn to weeks, and months, and years. Time flows by, and they grow older, and still they continue to exist.

Jon, who is a surprisingly good cook, who sings any and every song they can remember the lyrics to, who plays chess against themself on the kitchen table. (Who cannot speak without worrying that they are compelling someone, who no longer sleeps at night and does not allow themself to dream.) 

Martin, who adopts plants until they overtake the house, filling the rooms with lush greenery, who learns the piano, who makes custom blends of tea. (Who often cannot leave the house, or his room, or his bed, who sits in the bathtub until the water’s long gone cold, and pretends he does not exist.)

Jon and Martin, who can never figure out when the other wants to be touched, or cannot stand it in the moment.

Jon and Martin, who speak rarely and argue in the moments that they do.

Martin, who twists his lips and words at Jon.

Jon, who pushes too far, hurls everything they have and more at Martin.

Jon and Martin, who love each other.

Tonight, Jon joins him in bed. This has become rarer and rarer, as most nights end with Martin asking, “Jon, will you come to bed now?” and Jon responding with an absent wave of their hand, and a, “soon, I just need to finish this chapter.”

Side by side, they lie in the dark, Martin allowing his breathing to slow and waiting for the inevitable rustle of sheets as Jon slides quietly out of bed. 

Tonight, when Jon has left the room, Martin follows. Tonight, he discovers what Jon has been doing, every night that they slip off, smooth words to cover a truth that cannot be ugly or beautiful yet, when it has simply never been known.

And tonight, the stars are bright in the night sky, as Jon climbs to the roof, and Martin follows them. There are no clouds in the sky, and the world is perfect.

”You followed.”

”Yes.”

The words are empty, just like the pair of them.

For a while, they do not speak and merely sit, Jon watching the skies, Martin watching Jon.

There is an unspoken realization that night. Of what has been done to them, and what they have done to each other. Of how, despite the lengths to which they have gone to profess their love for each other, perhaps it was everything but.

Perhaps they were never meant for this.

”Tell me,” Martin asks at last. “What do you come up here for, every night?”

And Jon shifts, turns to look at him, and the expression on their face is heartbreaking.

”Martin,” they say.

”I would’ve told you, that very first night, if you’d only asked me.”

**Author's Note:**

> it is possible i was trying to do too much with this. i don't know. i enjoyed writing it? have a good day!
> 
> inspired by amanda palmer's 'the bed song'


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